


To Make His Mistress Laugh

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Bahorel/Bahorel's Laughing Mistress... sort of, Canon Era, I Have No Idea How To Tag This Without Spoiling The Whole Story, Melancholy, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel wasn't entirely certain that what they had was love, was even, perhaps, certain that it was not anything of the kind.  It was passion.  It was hot, furious and single-minded in its intensity of moment.  And it was terrible in the way it forced such a binding understanding upon its participants… but it was not love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make His Mistress Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> **_November 20, 2013:_** When I started this story, I thought it was going to be one thing... and then it turned into something else. Mainly, I wished to explore certain characters whose characterizations I've been finding lacking in stories I started at the beginning of my foray into the Les Mis fandom. The more I read of them, the more I realize I've done them some disservice, especially in earlier chapters. So. My apologies to Joly, in particular. Here's hoping I've done you more justice this time around.
> 
> (Some lines of dialogue borrowed, with thanks, from the Hapgood translation of Les Miserables.)
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/67569638732/to-make-his-mistress-laugh-5302-words-by).

It was a subtle arrangement they had, private and not to be flaunted, but it suited them, Bahorel and his mistress. In most things they argued, threw wild blows and fought as though fighting were their life's blood -- and so it was. They were at their best when wild, enjoyed each other most when passion brought their tempers roaring to the surface. It was not something to be easily understood by one who stood outside it, by one who did not feel as deeply as they did. So, Bahorel disdained discussing it, balked at raising his mistress' likeness -- even in words -- when his friends drew melancholic with talk of love.

Bahorel wasn't entirely certain that what they had _was_ love, was even, perhaps, certain that it was not anything of the kind. It was passion. It was hot, furious and single-minded in its intensity of moment. And it was terrible in the way it forced such a binding understanding upon its participants… but it was not love.

Perhaps it was lust.

Perhaps it was something else entirely, which defied mortal definition.

"You are in luck, that you are. You have a mistress who is always laughing."

Bahorel blinked, looked up from the dominoes at which he had been intensely frowning and transferred that frown to Joly. Joly was a man both blessed with eternal curiosity and cursed with a need to meddle in the affairs of others. He imagined maladies where there were none and co-opted happy endings when he had none of his own in sight. If Bahorel were to guess, having missed the start of this impromptu dissection of his love affairs, Joly's own mistress must be once again causing him grief.

It was a strange thing, this affair between Joly and his mistress. She was wild, as tempestuous as Bahorel's own, and a better match for Joly because of it than appeared at first glance. But, between her forthright manner and Joly's odd humors, it made for some grave misunderstandings between them. Sometimes Bossuet was able to mediate between them, smooth the jagged edges of their passions, but tonight Bossuet was otherwise engaged--

"Silence then, capital R!"

…very much otherwise engaged. With Enjolras absent -- truthfully, even when he was present -- the most vocal among them was Grantaire, and he was in rare form tonight. Deep in his cups, and filled with bitterly self-directed humor and vitriol in equal measure, he would not be silent, would not be calm, would not be rational. And yet even in being so wild and wandering so far from his point that none could even guess at what that point had once been… still he made a terrible kind of sense. Bossuet was one of the very few who would engage him or indulge him when a mood this black descended upon him and was, conveniently so, one of the few whom Grantaire could tolerate in said condition. And so, Bossuet was occupied and Bahorel left to deal with Joly's discussions of romance and its entanglements on his own.

Bahorel said softly, "Do you think it brings me joy? To have a mistress who is always laughing? It is a fault of one's mistress to laugh. Laughter covers a great many things, Joly, and encourages one to treat the one laughing as though nothing were the matter, as though they were truly joyful. It makes one forgetful -- laughter can often be a lie."

As though in demonstration of the point, Grantaire let out another burst of raucous laughter in that moment, before burying himself back in his wine. Both Bahorel and Joly looked up, spotting the melancholy look which took the place of that laughter as Grantaire drank deeply of his bottle, but only because they were looking for it. They both knew all too well the rises and falls of Grantaire's temperament. Joly sighed. "You make an excellent point, my friend. But surely," He looked up, "Surely your mistress laughs for better reasons. Surely she laughs so that you will not quarrel, so that you will be happy. Surely it is different."

Bahorel smiled gently, laid one large hand on Joly's shoulder in a pacifying motion. "Surely, it is, Joly. It is very different. Very different, indeed." He added not that the reason they never quarreled was because they hardly spoke, hardly had two words to say to each other outside of their passion. They were as two countries divided by war and held apart by binding treaties. There was too much of which they could not speak, too many truths which would shatter the fragile peace of shared need between them were they to be uttered out loud.

Peace is happiness digesting, Joly had said. Knowing all too well the feeling of happiness being broken down into pieces so small they can hardly be seen, much less felt, and knowing all too well how long the happiness of his mistress had been digesting… it was all too apt a comparison.

Turning back to their game, Bahorel attempted to throw Joly off the track upon which he had latched. Above all Joly was a healer and he would wish to heal this if he understood exactly how broken, how ill, it was… and that would not do. His interference would be anything but welcomed. So, to turn that keenly inquisitive mind to where it would do far more good…

"And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with Mamselle—you know whom I mean?"

* * *

When Bahorel left the Musain that night, he was intoxicated and more than a bit melancholy himself. Joly was tiring company when he'd gotten himself into a twist, torn between what he wanted and what he knew he couldn't have. It made him a little wild, a little too desperate to be jovial. In the end, he'd latched onto Bossuet, determined more than ever to patch up his current difficulties with Musichetta and knowing that Bossuet's gentle touch on the situation would calm what he could not.

Bereft of Bossuet's calming influence, however, Grantaire had drifted from group to group, drinking more, talking less, and forever eyeing the door to see who was coming through it. With each person who passed before his eyes, however, said eyes darkened all the more. Bahorel knew for whom he was looking. They _all_ knew for whom he was looking. And they all were equally relieved when he removed himself from the premises without having that wistful desire fulfilled. Grantaire steeped in his wine was a bad mix with Enjolras even at his most jovial. At his most melancholic, as he was tonight, it would have been far worse. Enjolras' disappointment, his disdain for Grantaire's habits, would have slid between Grantaire's ribs as a well-sharpened blade, would have left him bleeding and even more morose than he had already been.

If there had even been a chance of such a cut lancing the vitriolic poison in Grantaire's heart and allowing the man a chance to free himself of his worshipful and unhealthy obsession, Bahorel would have been all for it, but such never seemed to be the outcome when Enjolras and Grantaire tangled words. Neither seemed quite capable of truly seeing the other for what they were, only for who each wished them to be, and in such a state, they could cause each other nothing but pain. And so, it was better that they not meet like this… better by far.

Bahorel had left not long after, no longer in the mood for wine and jovial company. His heart was too tangled, itself, too full of the borrowed pain of his friends. He wished nothing more than to find a brawl, to exorcise those emotions in a way which would not harm those he cared about, but this close to their dreams becoming reality, he could not afford to be arrested for such conduct. And so, he took the only avenue left to him. Barred from seeking a brawl of fists, he sought one of words.

It was time to make his mistress laugh.

* * *

The door was unlocked, set slightly ajar from the doorjamb, and Bahorel's eyes narrowed at the sight. It might simply be a sign that his footfalls had been heard on the stairs, a sign that he was welcome. It might, instead, be a sign that the one within had been too careless -- or too drunk -- to close it fully. Either way, it was dangerous. For who knew what manner of stranger might choose to accept that unspoken invitation to enter and partake of the delights inside? It was a thought which did not bear thinking. Someone else's hands on that body, someone else's kisses on those lips… someone else's words in those ears. No.

Bahorel pushed the door open, the first of many impassioned arguments already on his lips… just to have them die unbidden at the sight revealed by the open door. His mistress quirked an eyebrow from the sole chair which graced the room, raised the bottle to drink deeply of it, head tipped back and throat working as the wine went down, free hand drifting between the parted halves of a shirt to toy with one bare nipple. And when the bottle was once again lowered and his mistress saw the utterly flummoxed expression on his face… there was laughter.

Rushing forward, settling quickly between parted legs and parted arms, Bahorel took possession of the now empty bottle, threw it unceremoniously to the side and took its place at those wine-drenched lips. A soft groan answered him as the buttons of his waistcoat caught at bared and sensitive nipples. When he pulled back, Bahorel said, "You oughtn't leave the door agape as you did, especially when alone, especially when you have been indulging overly as you did tonight. It isn't safe. You know that."

As Bahorel leaned lower, that laughing voice spoke, tickled vibrations against Bahorel's lips even as he began trailing kisses up the sculpted column of that bared neck to soothe the admonishment of his words. "I expected you. After tonight… I knew you'd come. My knight. My gallant lover. My hero. You would not leave me so unsatisfied, so alone."

Arms wrapped around Bahorel, began drifting lower, circling the tight muscles of his shoulders, his upper arms, before sliding beneath them and around to his back. And still, those words never ceased. "I heard you, you know. Speaking of me with Joly as if I would not overhear. Is my laughter so much a lie, my lover? Am I not jolly enough for ten such men as he? Come. Tell me how you would have me if not joyful. Would you have me melancholy as your Prouvaire? Would you have me filled with passion as Courfeyrac?" Bahorel shook his head, bent lower to take one tightened nipple between his lips, tongued hard at the small nub as though in angry denial of the words spewing forth from his lover's lips.

Those words continued, unabated, stronger now that they had provoked the reaction they sought, "Ah! Have I touched a nerve? Perhaps you would have me gentle, sweet and good of nature, like Bossuet. Perhaps you would have me full of fire and scarlet opinions like you… like _him_. Tell me… am I not all of these things already, in turn? Am I not full of my own melancholy? Am I not passionate enough when the wine holds sway? Am I not sweet enough when the mood takes me?" The body beneath Bahorel's lips shivered as he moved his lips to the other nipple, and his hands to grab at the seat of his lover's rear and pull them flush together.

Dexterous hands tightened on Bahorel's shoulders at that move, a gasp filled the air between them, but still there were words. Bahorel wished nothing more than for those damning words to cease, to stop reminding him of his own failures, his own inability to put a true smile on the lips currently spewing that self-directed revulsion. But, he had tried before, and as often as he had tried… he had failed an equal number of times. This was his penance -- to let the words run out, to suck as much of that poison from those wounds as he could stomach… to be ready when his mistress needed to spew more.

Rocking hard against the body beneath his, Bahorel drew another gasp, wrung a deeply strangled moan from parted lips. "Ah… my love, you bring me to ever greater heights, yet though I grow dizzy looking down from atop them, I will not forget my purpose. I will have an answer to my questions. Is there harm in the deceit of my laughter? How if it were no deceit, but truth? There is much I find in this situation worthy of a laugh. Would you have me change? Would you have me different? Though I have no original creative skill of my own, I am quite adept at mimicry. Come, come. Tell me. How would you have me, lover?"

Hostile eyes locked with Bahorel's, no mercy to be had anywhere within their depths, his mistress hissed out, "Who would you have me be? Name him and I will be he for the night and cease this bitter eloquence in favor of laughing in truth."

Bahorel pulled back at that, as far as his mistress' arms would allow him, realizing that his attempts at pleasurable distraction were doomed to failure with his lover riding this particular mood. He should have know it would be so, should have known it from the moment he decided to leave the Musain and the company of his fellows for the arms of his mistress, should have known it from the moment Joly uttered those first fateful words… Sighing, Bahorel dropped his head to his mistress' shoulder, buried his face in unkempt dark curls. Face still tucked away, lips moving against bared skin, Bahorel said, "I would only ever have you be yourself. I would only ever have you give to me what is in you to give. Though you are bitter, and full of anger and drink, I still would not have you be any other way. I would not lose the only one I see as an equal in this particular sparring ring. I would not have you be different, would not have you be anyone else… though I know you do not feel the same of me." The body in his embrace made a short, abortive motion, muscles which had before been been languid with drink and desire now tensed at those words. Bahorel let out a dark laugh of his own. "I have hit the target in one shot, have I not? This wish of yours -- to become someone else -- is borne of a desire that _I_ should be someone else."

Bahorel's mistress pushed him away at that point and levered up out of the chair, sneering harshly -- though whether that sneer was self-directed or directed at Bahorel, Bahorel couldn't begin to guess. It was mere moments before another bottle had been found and opened and tipped up to kiss swollen lips, an alarming amount disappearing in that first swallow, considering how much his mistress had drunk already that evening. He reached for it, attempted to pry it from tension tightened fingers, but his mistress would have none of it, pulled the bottle out of reach and threw a punch in its stead. Bahorel caught the wild swing in his hand and shook his head. There was too much pain here, already, for a true fight to do anything more or less than severely damage them both. He would not indulge in one, now -- not like this.

His mistress' voice was rough, half-choked with frustration and no small amount of fear. "And what would you know? You wander about the city, day after day, dabbling in everything and committing to nothing. You dabble in your studies, dabble in your fighting, dabble in your drinking and your carousing and your revolutions, and yet, somehow, you are not disdained for it. You are friend to everyone and yet love no one. _What would you know of what I wish?_ "

Bahorel released the hand still clasped in his and instead reached out to cup one flushed cheek, to stroke a gentle thumb against the high arch of one cheekbone. Softly he said, "You are wrong, my friend. I am friend to everyone _because_ I love." His mistress tore away from him then, bitter disappointment with his words filling dark eyes. 

Bahorel stood, reached out a hand in entreaty. "You don't believe in me. You don't love me. I understand that. I have _always_ understood that. There is one man only whom you love, and in whom you believe, and I am not that man." He took a deep breath, forced his breathing to calm, his heart to slow. Becoming angry at this late a juncture would serve no purpose to either of them. He said, "To protect that man and his ideals, you would have these dalliances kept secret and I have accepted that, as well. I have accepted _all_ of these as the conditions under which I can -- even for this short a while -- make you smile, make you laugh… and _I have counted it worth it_." As quickly as that passion had taken him, it now fled, leaving him slumped, his voice weary. "Can _you_ not accept, even after all this time, that I am sincere in my intentions? If there is anything in this world which I can claim to understand, it is your commitment to him, for I feel the same commitment -- to him _and_ to you. Will you not permit me even this?"

Bahorel's mistress turned, quirked one eyebrow as those features briefly flirted with a sardonic smile before being losing it to rapidly descending ennui. Returning to sit once more, his mistress pulled him down, pressed a soft brush of a kiss across his lips, then said, "This has not been fair to you, has it?" Before Bahorel could answer, his mistress laughed. "No. Don't answer. I know it has not. You are a man with great passion in your convictions. It does not become you -- these clandestine meetings." A finger lifted to shake twice in front of Bahorel's face in admonishment. "And, I was witness to how uncomfortable you became under Joly's prying gaze, so you can not deny it. You would have an open relationship, you would tell every one of your friends, even should there be consequences. You…" A soft sigh. "You are so like him. Secrecy. Stealth. Insincerity… They do not become you, and I do you a disservice to force you to live your life thus."

Long legs wrapped around Bahorel's waist, drew him closer still. "I will speak to Joly. This deep into the summer months, this close to their goals, the others are too wrapped up in their dreams of revolutionary fervor to notice or care what we do in our private lives… but Joly will not rest nor back down from his curiosity. He will push at you until you give him the answers he seeks and I would not have you be the one to bear the cost of a decision which was wholly mine. Coming from me… he will understand. And he can be trusted… he has as much to hide as we." Nodding once, satisfied that a decision had been made, Bahorel's mistress leaned over and pressed firm kisses upon him -- his lips, his face, his brow -- then whispered, "Come then, lover. If you would have me as myself and I would not dare have you as other than yourself after that impassioned and shaming speech, shall we enjoy each other, still? The days of summer grow long, our days within them grow short, and I have had my fill of drink for the night. I would partake of a sweeter wine… if you permit it."

Bahorel let out a soft groan at those words -- his mistress' mouth was skilled at far more than talk and laughter and it had been some time since last they had engaged in such a way as to make use of it. Eyes dancing with mirth at Bahorel's obvious desire, bitterness and melancholy put away for now, his mistress said, "I can see the idea pleases you. Come then, we shall trade places, you and I, and I will make better use of these lips than I have the rest of this night, speaking words which have pained you so… my friend, my lover, mon cheri…" Wine-soaked lips painted each of those words onto Bahorel's skin as open-mouthed kisses, intense and with purpose. As those kisses traveled lower, dexterous hands opened Bahorel's waistcoat and shirt before them, parting them to reveal skin tight and all but shivering in anticipation. There was a throaty laugh. "Why, Bahorel… do you carry a pistol in your pocket or are you pleased with my attentions?"

Bahorel had practiced admirable restraint the entire night. He had been patient, had allowed this taunting to draw out far beyond what it even usually did. Leaning forward, he pulled his mistress' legs more firmly about his waist… and stood, earlier plans pushed aside. He had his own plans, now.

As they brushed against each other, his mistress gasped out a breathy laugh, then a soft moan as Bahorel thrust upwards, bringing them closer, still. As Bahorel lavished attention once more upon that long, bared neck, the next breathy moan became tangled with words -- a request. Bahorel couldn't make out much of it, but there was mention of a jar of oil and numerous iterations of the words, "Yes," "Oh please," and "More." Bahorel was all too happy to oblige.

Carefully, Bahorel moved them across the room, one hand clutching his mistress close, the other squirming between them to undo as many fastenings as he could on both of their sets of clothing, thanking his mistress' forethought that so many layers had already been undone. Their progress was slow and oft interrupted as one or the other caught their breath and ground against the other. The pace his mistress encouraged was frantic, desperate, and as violent as any Bahorel had ever set for them. It was why they were such a good match. They understood each other well, understood each other's needs, and right now both needed to work off roiling emotions which could be purged no other way.

There was a crash as they careened into the table, a muffled curse as Bahorel nearly tripped over a discarded boot, and a bout of breathless laughter as Bahorel tore a button from his mistress' shirt in his haste to prevent himself from dropping either of them in the process of relocating and undressing all at once. His mistress' eyes were dancing, now, once more in a laughing frame of mind, and Bahorel thrilled to see it. When his mistress offered to walk, however, Bahorel was unable to see it as ought but a challenge. Getting a firmer grip on his mistress, he crossed the last few steps to reach the footstool which acted as his mistress' night table and grabbed for the bottle of oil.

Having achieved that much success, Bahorel allowed their parting for long enough for each to remove the remainder of their clothes. What he had in mind would be difficult enough without anything restricting either of their movements. Bare moments after removing the stopper from the oil jar, his mistress was back in his arms, wrapping legs around his waist and mouthing kisses at his collarbone and up towards his ear, breathy voice panting words into it once it was within reach. "Faster, Bahorel! At this rate, I will be finished long before you have even begun whatever plan it is you have a mind to enact!"

With a low groan, Bahorel tipped the oil into his hand, trusting his mistress to keep in place without assistance. He slicked his own member, then reached out to brace himself against the wall with a soft cry as even that stimulation proved to be almost too much. Moments later, his mistress' hands were pushing his away and taking hold of him, squeezing him gently but firmly about the base of his hardness. He grunted into it, fought not to thrust into that tight circle, fought instead to stand there, quiescent, hand braced on the wall as that almost-too-tight grip centered him, gave him back just enough control to accomplish what he had planned. When his mistress released him, Bahorel moved to apply that oil where it would truly do the most good, but his mistress growled low and ground down against him. "Damn your gallantry, I won't break! Just do it. I am as prepared as I need to be."

Bahorel needed no further urging than that, moved them both forward until his mistress' back hit the wall, prompting a surprised and somewhat pained grunt. Once he had that stability from which to work, Bahorel shifted his arms to get a better grip and in one steady push, slid inside that waiting, tight heat. Gasping, his mistress' head flew back, and only a quick shift on Bahorel's part prevented that lovely head of dark curls from meeting the wall hard enough to end the evening's festivities. He waited, then, until his mistress regained breath, shifting to accommodate him at this difficult angle, thighs clenching around Bahorel's waist and drawing them closer with each shift. It was so delicious, each minute shift producing far more in sensation than even his most wild thrusts ever had upon the mattress. Now that he was back in control of himself and the situation, Bahorel felt as though he could stay like this all night.

Lips spreading wide in a smile that was anything but nice, Bahorel leaned in, pressing his mistress against the wall in such a way that movement was impossible for either of them but for the barely there shifts he produced as he thrust deeply inside. His mistress cried out, scrabbled at the wall, at his back, started pulling at his hair, even, eventually just started up a stream of low curses and strangled moans. Bahorel kept them like that, pressed against the wall, not allowing his mistress any movement at all except for those wildly scrabbling hands, for as long as his legs would support them. And though tall, his mistress was lanky; it was little effort to keep that thin frame aloft with the willing support of a sturdy wall. Their love-making changed, then, shifted from its earlier frantic and violent need into something slower, steadier, almost languid. They pressed tightly against each other, bellies moving in counterpoint, breaths mingling in the space between their lips until, overcome, one would close that distance so there remained no space at all.

Bahorel kept them there, hovering on the edge of completion, for as long as he could, thrusting just often enough to renew the sparks as they began to come down again, until his mistress let out a soft, broken cry and shuddered in his arms. His own orgasm came almost as an afterthought, as his mistress tightened around him, and it wasn't until then that he realized that he would rather have stayed there, caught at the edge of that moment forever, than to have to come down from that lofty height as he had.

With a wince and a move that was far closer to a fall than a graceful lowering, Bahorel dropped them both to the mattress, his mistress still sprawled on his lap with Bahorel hilt-deep inside. They sat there, panting, heady with that rush of desire, until his mistress eventually groaned and pushed up off of him to grab a cloth and clean them up. That accomplished, they both dropped to the mattress, too exhausted even to redress before curling around each other. Bahorel smiled as he lay close behind his mistress, buried his nose in those sweat-dampened curls. When his mistress huffed out a short laugh at his ministrations, proving that sleep was still being elusive for them both, Bahorel said softly, "You won't forget to speak to Joly tomorrow, will you?"

His mistress sighed, patted his hand before replying. "No, Bahorel. I won't forget. You're right. I owe you that much for tolerating my ill humor and distraction as you do. I owe you far more than that, in fact. It's the least I can do. Now, sleep, Bahorel… sleep. I'll take care of it tomorrow." And with that reassurance ringing in his ears… Bahorel slept.

* * *

When Bahorel reached the Musain that night it was to find most of his comrades and friends already in place, practically vibrating with the same heavy tension which lay about the city like a miasma. Joly had joined Grantaire in his drinking, already, both sporting the high color in their cheeks that spoke of many bottles long gone before his arrival. He approached slowly, uncertain of his welcome into that closely-knit gathering.

He need not have feared. Grantaire's head shot up at Bahorel's approach, the wariness in his eyes at odds with the devil-may-care grin on his face. "And here he is, my friends! The man of the hour. Surely he brings us some inspiring words in our leader's absence. Shall we tear down the establishment? Shall we tear up the roads? Come, come, Bahorel. Surely there is something. Imbue us with your passion that we too may rise!"

Bahorel shook his head. He had no eloquence in him tonight, too wary of the knowledge he sought to find in Joly's eyes, knowledge that would inform him that one weight, at least, had been lifted from his shoulders.

Grantaire laughed, low and dark, and handed over a bottle. "Or perhaps you would speak of other things than revolution. Perhaps you would continue your conversation of just yesterday? Joly has been telling me the most fascinating tales of how much more pleasure can be had of three bodies than of two. Perhaps your mistress would permit an experiment?"

At those words, Joly laughed and raised his bottle to clink with Grantaire's. "Touché, my friend. Touché." Turning to face Bahorel, he quirked an eyebrow, "And what say you, Bahorel? I have much wisdom I could impart in such matters and, should you wish to attempt it, I can think of several who would oblige you. Courfeyrac, for certain. Feuilly, though you might not think it to talk with him. Or perhaps you prefer the ratio a bit different? I am sure my Musichetta has a willing friend or two if I were but to ask."

Torn between a desire to laugh and a desire to pummel the two gay fools before him, Bahorel chose instead to leave the conversation with his dignity intact and his mind now much more at ease. Primly, he said, "I think not, Joly. I am more than satisfied in the arms of my mistress. Should my mistress require more pleasure than what can be gotten from me, I leave it to you to make your recommendations directly. Gentleman."

As Bahorel turned to leave the table, he overheard Joly make a query and Grantaire's response was just loud enough that Bahorel could not help but think he was intended to overhear… and the words of that response warmed him in ways few other words ever had.

"No, Joly. Though I appreciate the offer on her behalf, I have had occasion to speak with Bahorel's laughing mistress, and it seems she is satisfied… very satisfied, indeed. She would not change their arrangement, nor would she change him… not for all the golden-haired beauties in the land."

**Author's Note:**

>  ** _A/N:_** I warred with myself over submitting this for R Ship Week. Eventually I decided not to because I think the story loses some impact if you know that particular spoiler going into it. So I'm sure fewer people will find it... but, eh. So be it. :)


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